


Cashmere

by Gypsy_Rose_2014



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Fetish, Masturbation, Romance, Shameless Smut, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gypsy_Rose_2014/pseuds/Gypsy_Rose_2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper has a soft spot for Sherlock's scarf.  But then again, don't we all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cashmere

**Author's Note:**

> I thought that in honor of bringing my fic to AO3 (FINALLY) that I'd post an exclusive piece of smut. I own none of the characters, I'm just playing with their worlds.

She didn’t mean to steal it. When Molly saw the strip of deep blue cashmere hanging on the coat rack, she’d planned to slip it into her purse and take it straightaway to Baker Street as soon as her shift was over. After all, it was chilly and damp out. He might need it before the night was through and Molly didn’t have anything else to do. But first, a stop at the shops to grab a few items: a salad mix, some fresh California rolls, and a bottle of wine. She’d had a craving and she just couldn’t bring herself to have one more dinner alone in a restaurant. There was something incredibly sad about sitting alone at a table. It was a reminder of her loneliness now that there was no Tom. God, she felt pathetic. She’d given up what was probably her last chance at marriage for a relationship that may never happen. “You aren’t getting any younger, Molly,” her friends were so fond of saying.

“Is that all, love?” Molly gasped as the clerk disrupted her depressing reverie. Probably for the best. She smiled and nodded. “Nine pound, fifty,” the clerk said. Molly went into her purse, silently scolding herself for carrying around this huge old lady bag with all this shit she didn’t need. She was searching for her wallet and the people behind her were already scoffing and tapping their feet impatiently. Sherlock’s damn scarf kept getting in her way and so she did the only thing she could. She wrapped it around her neck while she finished paying.

It was an innocent gesture. Something she hadn’t thought twice about. But that small thing changed everything. She could smell him. As she wrapped the scarf around her throat, she caught a whiff of his scent. Cashmere has a very natural smell. Some might say it’s unpleasant with its musky, animal-like scent, but to Molly it put her in mind of the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck when he’d been running and they were stringy with sweat. That heavy, earthy odor of him. She smelled it a few times during his time away. He’d show up at her door, bruised and exhausted. He’d ask to come in and she’d always let him.

Then there was the tobacco. Always the stale, smoky scent of tobacco. He claimed that he’d quit, but Molly knew it wasn’t so. She’d caught him several times behind the ambulance bay at Bart’s. No one ever thought to look there. And now, wearing his sarf and pressing it to her nose, she could smell the evidence clearly—almost taste it.

But the coup de gras. The scent that haunted her dreams and fantasies—the scent that even now, standing here in front of this expectant shop girl, made her wet with desire. She couldn’t quite place what it was, only that it was intensely Sherlock. Just a bit of leather—oiled leather, like a saddle of the seats of an expensive car, a crisp hint of tea leaves and a bittersweet drop of whiskey to finish it off. No one else in the world smelled quite like that and, as she’d discovered with Tom, it could not be duplicated.

She handed over the cash and hurried out the door. She was practically running as she made her way to the nearest Tube station. While she stood on the platform, clutching her groceries, she pulled the scarf tighter around her neck. The rational part of her brain said it was to keep out the cold, but the sticky warm patch between her thighs said differently. She wanted him close. She wanted him and it was overwhelming.

She sat down in the first available seat, crossing her legs and holding her grocery bag tightly. It was almost as if she thought these people were aware of the surging of hormones going on inside of her. Her eyes darted from side to side, blushing to think that everyone in the carriage was aware that she’d stolen Sherlock’s cashmere scarf and that it was turning her on. The route was short and Molly was grateful. For one thing, the constant jostling and vibrating of the car was making the throbbing sensations worse. She found herself crossing and recrossing her legs, biting her lip with the slight friction it allowed. If she didn’t get off this damn train soon, she was going to really embarrass herself. Molly got off of the train, pushing people aside in her haste to get out of the station and into the cool of the evening. The air against her cheeks was such a relief. It seemed to slow her breathing a little.

Molly concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths as she pushed the key to her flat into the lock and went inside. As she closed the door behind her, the sound echoed off the walls. “Hello!” she called out, knowing there was no one there. She made her way up the stairs, her footfalls counting out the beating of her heart. As soon as she made it into the kitchen, she put her bags down on the counter and wandered into her bedroom. It had been such a long day. All she wanted to do was put on her comfiest pajamas and curl up on the couch. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she pulled her boots off and threw them across the room. Next came her socks, then her frumpy khaki trousers. Before long she had thrown aside every stitch of clothing and it was time to discard Sherlock’s scarf. She grabbed the end and slowly pulled it away from her throat. She held it in her hands, examining the stitching as she lay back against her pillow. It was worn. This one was his favorite. There was slight fading in places that indicated where he normally had it tied and there was a little fraying at the edges.

Once more, Molly pressed the soft material against her cheek. The corner of the scarf slipped through her fingertips and brushed lightly against the curve of her naked breast. She liked the way it felt and slowly let more of the fabric slide down. Immediately, the nipple beaded and Molly bit her lower lip. Her hands slid down, dragging the scarf with them. Slowly she cupped each breast, feeling the weight in her hands and enjoying the soft texture of the cashmere against the untouched flesh. She imagined those thin, delicately boned hands of Sherlock’s gripping each breast tight and pulling them toward his mouth. He would be rough, almost savage in his manipulations of her. She knew this to be true. Men like Sherlock, bold men who were always certain and strong, they did not waste their time with nervous groping in the dark. Molly gripped her breast tightly, leaning forward so that she might lick and bite at herself. If only she could close her mouth over the tips, she could suckle and nibble, imagining her lips were his. But she would have to make do and instead used her fingertips to pinch and pull, tug and roll the turgid nipple between them. They were sensitive, almost painfully so, and when the gentle touch of the cashmere slipped across them, she moaned loudly.

A rush of warmth settled over her sex. The excitement that began as soon as she put on his scarf had culminated in dripping wet desire that made her spread her thighs apart. She needed to cool the heat. Suddenly, an idea formed that made her breath short. Her heart beat faster and she closed her eyes. He was there. He was always there, staring down at her with a gaze of fire and ice. She had memorized the way his mouth moved when he said her name. The way he smiled when he solved a particularly satisfying puzzle. She was so practiced at imagining his face that it didn’t take long to conjure his image. Bringing the fabric still clutched in her hand back to her nose, she could smell him again and it made him all the more real. She let the other end go, using her fingers to slide it further down until the scarf lay over her sex. She put her legs together, the sensation of the soft, material pressing hard against her. It was warm like the palm of his hand, molding to the fleshy hood of her pussy. She rolled over to her side, keeping her thighs locked together and moaning at the gentle friction her movement created. Of their own accord, her hips gave a tender thrust, and soon she was rubbing herself shamelessly against this unlikely artifact. She cried out into the pillow, slipping her hand between her thighs. Rolling over, she let her legs fall apart. Her sex felt swollen and impossibly open with her arousal. The tender petals were dripping with slippery dew and the cashmere scarf was sticking to the overheated flesh.

Just one touch. She wanted to come. She had never wanted to so badly in all her adult life. And she needed him to do it. Not once, never once had Tom made her cry out with pleasure. The only time in their relationship that she’d ever had an orgasm was when she imagined that it was Sherlock thrusting deep into her womb and not his pale substitute. And this slip of cashmere was the closest she was likely to get. She wrapped the edge of the scarf tightly around her fingertips. With a scream of release, she pushed them inside, touching those innermost places that she kept only for him. It seemed like hours that her body tensed and shook. She rode the wave of her orgasm until she was panting with exhaustion. Finally, she was able to breathe and she let her arms fall to either side. The cloth was still trapped within her and she wanted to leave it there as long as possible. As she imagined she would let his cock lie there within until it grew soft and slipped from her grasp.

“I’m running out of scarves, you know.”

Molly opened one eye to see Sherlock standing in her doorway. “You really should learn to knock.”

“I thought you were expecting me. Seeing as how I left that at Bart’s.” He ambled into the bedroom, letting his coat fall to the floor behind him.

“Oh? You left it just for me?”

“I do enjoy these little tete a tetes,” he replied, crawling into her bed. She smirked and lay back, crossing her arms behind her head. Reaching out, he grabbed the scarf and pulled it gently away from her. He held it to his face, inhaling the scent of her that she had permanently impregnated into the threads of cashmere. “I think you ruined it this time, Mouse.”

“I think ‘ruin’ is a strong word,” Molly sighed.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “I don’t think so. I think you’ve been a very naughty girl,” he purred, kissing the side of her throat. “And I think you owe me a new cashmere scarf.”


End file.
